Episode π: Mime Artists
by Sherlock Emrys
Summary: Today, on NVCR: A plague of mime artists threatens the town, the Hooded Figures have left a message, and on Thursday reality is closed for maintenance. Welcome to Night Vale. Transcript-style Fake Episode fic. Really fits anywhere in the series. All PG, except major Night Vale weirdness and creepy.


**Night Vale fic, because even though I only started listening to it four days ago it has taken over my brain with its indescribable what-is-this-awesome-weirdness thing. Also, my sisters were having a Twilight movie marathon, no thanks, and I had to find other stuff to do, so Night Vale, and now I'm all out of episodes. This is my first WTNV fic, so I'm still playing with how to format the audio-to-text nature of it. Enjoy!**

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**This is a Night Vale City Library Archive Transcript. We welcome you to the official Archives, containing records of all town newspapers and magazines, as well as radio transcripts, official documents and records of the conversations of ordinary people kindly donated by the Sheriff's Secret Police. We remind you that silence ****_is _****mandatory in the Library and is enforced via summary execution, if you are not found by a Librarian first. Archives are also subject to Council discretionary redactions, reductions, refractions, resumptions, resurrections, reflections, renditions, repressions and ritual removal from the fabric of existence. **

**Bolded text represents non-vocal elements of the audio. Or redactions. Or maybe we just got bored of the formatting. **

**Archive Transcript: [Date redacted], transcribed by [redacted], on Night Vale Community Radio Station, hosted by Cecil Baldwin. **

Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so. But maybe this time is different.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, I feel sure that you, like me, have noticed that sad and sorry plague that besets our fair town. From every dark, creeping corner they come, blighting every street, every playground, every fair, every fete, every public execution. I refer, of course, to the insidious horror that is **[significant pause] **the mime artists. Yes, listeners; Significant Pause mime artists! Be afraid. Quiver in mingled fear and rage, for the mime artists have come! Hide your children; hide your loved ones. Avert your eyes. Avert your mind. Think not on these sinister figures, clothed in black and white, with their pale, masked faces. What do they hide, I ask? What lies beneath the thick make up? Is it some horror that is beyond the scope of human comprehension, or merely a mundane and comprehensible trauma? Or, dear listeners, is it not, in fact, make up at all?

A spokesentity from the Sheriff's Secret Police, shrouded beneath a uniform that I am not at liberty to describe to you, said "We are aware of the ongoing situation and would ask for the patience and cooperation of all Night Vale's citizens as well as their first born children and any engraved daggers that they may possess." They also suggested that mime artists, having been classified as vermin under the Street Theatre Act of last month, form a tasty and nutritious meal for the whole family. So, good hunting, Night Vale! More on this pest problem should more occur, or, indeed, should we have a scheduling gap that needs filling.

This week, dear listeners, is Jubilee Week. There is no jubilee to celebrate, but Night Vale has never let that get in the way of a good celebration! Several events are planned for this annual extravaganza, and I suggest that you take your family, your pets, your loved ones and hide somewhere secure for the duration. Stay tuned for handy tips for decorations and hosting your own celebrations, as well as the events schedule, enabling you to know when to run and hide.

The hooded figures that no one looks at or acknowledges have today released a statement. Or, at least, I think it's a statement. It was inside the building when we opened up this morning, and it reads – carved in strange sigils on a blood-soaked wooden idol, kindly translated by Intern Joshua – something that I can't quite pronounce. I think it might be Welsh. Intern Joshua is furiously working on the problem and reckons he'll have it translated in no time, really, just hand me that dictionary. Good luck Joshua, and we'll let you know what the hooded figures have to say later. If, indeed, it is the hooded figures. We can't be sure. But it seems likely, given that there was a circle of hooded figures surrounding it, who then proceeded to hover two feet above the ground, emanating a buzzing noise as of many insects, and then vanish in a swirl of violet light that made the eyeballs of all witnesses vomit. Have you ever seen an eyeball vomit, listeners? It is not a pretty sight.

Listeners, I have just been handed an update on the mime artist epidemic. It seems that a horde of mimes – emanating from who knows what area of the black void surrounding the puddle of light we call reality, or maybe just from Desert Bluffs (it would be just like them, wouldn't it, listeners, to send us their pestilential problems) – have appeared in the Mission Grove Park and are staging – horror of horrors – a performance of some kind. I am told that hostages have been taken and that several casualties have already been kindly put down by the Sheriff's Secret Police, despite their protests that really, it's fine, it's just a scratch, no, no, please, no, oh, arrgh. The remaining civilians have evacuated the area, only to be replaced by others who want to see what all the fuss is about, because really, there's no spectator sport quite like hostage situations and bloodthirsty massacres. It's proving to be quite the attraction.

The Sheriff's Secret Police have issued another statement via the same spokesentity as last time. It is still standing in the station, and has not visibly communicated with anyone, but it seems to know what it's talking about. The spokesentity said, "The situation in Grove Park is under control. No matter what you may hear otherwise, it is _under_ _control_. We hope to resolve the situation with the minimum of survivors." It then fell silent and remained still, impervious to all attempts at questioning. Well, Night Vale, it's reassuring to know that the situation is indeed under control. More on this story later, although, since the situation is controlled, it's hard to know whether it will ever develop further.

Intern Joshua says that he has translated the sigils of the statement from the hooded figures that nobody acknowledges or speaks about. He's a bit unsure on some of the more ambiguous words, but overall he thinks he's got it. The statement reads, "It is coming. You are all ignorant of its coming. You should all be afraid of your own, dark, deep, infinite ignorance. It is already here. Fear it. Fear it." Alternately, Intern Joshua says that it might also read "Glitter and ponies and sparkles, oh my! Please leave all jewellery in the nearest azalea clump." Well, listeners, I think we should deposit all jewellery in the azaleas, just in case. If nothing else, it will make the azaleas look nice.

And now, a word from our sponsor.

Arteries are red, veins are blue. Suffering is sweet. We don't care about you. IKEA – you really don't want to know what's in the meatballs. Really.

Well, listeners, the mime hostage situation is under control. That's what the Sheriff's Secret Police said, so we know it's true. But, listeners, I must report that the leader of the mimes has issued a request to call a truce and begin negotiations. However, it took a long time for anyone to understand what he wanted, since mimes have been banned in Night Vale for the last ten years, along with charades, and mimes, as we all know, can not talk. Since pens have also been banned, communications were difficult, but eventually we managed to get a statement from the mime's leader. He said – **[indeterminate rustling, sounds of movement, chair squeaks] – **followed by **[more rustling, sounds of movement]**. He added, in response to further questions, **[yet more rustling. A gentle thump is heard.] **Well, that is reassuring, isn't it? Of course, those who own chickens may feel differently, but it is certainly a relief to those of us who are less than fond of purple.

Negotiations for hostage release are now underway with the Mayor's office. More on this as it develops.

And now, let's take a look at the calendar. Monday is our tri-annual Fraction Day. Remember, everything must be clearly expressed as a fraction – including emotions. Night Vale has a proud tradition of such things – I remember when I was in school, being taught to express gratitude as a fraction, decimal and percentage… Expressing anything, including shouts of cosmic angst, as anything other than a fraction will have serious consequences. Tuesday is Golf Appreciation Day. Now, Night Vale does not have a golf course, but all stores will be selling buckets of golf balls to putt around town, in conveniently sized multiples of _i_. You can buy _i _balls, (that's a bucket with _i_ golf balls, listeners – eyeballs are still available, as usual, from Toys R Us), 2x_i_ balls, or, for the real enthusiast, _i_x10^10 golf balls. Nothing at all is happening on Thursday and early Friday, as reality and existence are closed for maintenance. Don't bother stocking up on anything, as you will cease to be for 26 hours. Instead, relax and enjoy the blissful absence of being and the cool welcome of oblivion before you are plunged again into the hectic struggle, the frantic scrabbling, that is existence. Friday afternoon, there is a cake sale on the school field. Stop by and pick up delicious home baked goods – all proceeds are going to a mysterious, yet menacing, government agency. This was the community calendar.

And now, dear listeners, an editorial.

Do you ever feel that **[redacted]**? I certainly do. And **[redacted]** that we all face, **[redacted] **as we **[redacted]**. In fact, **[redacted] **chickens** [redacted][really redacted] **bucket** [definitely redacted] **the Sheriff's Secret Police** [redacted][extremely redacted] **your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries** [this is still redacted] **with TNT** [redacted] **in a** [redacted]. **So in conclusion, listeners** [redacted, re-education is in order]** I would **like to reemphasise how very important it is to appreciate the Secret Police and their role in keeping us safe** and be aware **they are watching you. And they are coming.**

This has been an editorial. Wow, I'm glad to get that off my chest – I think this is an important issue for us here in Night Vale. And now, as the Sheriff's Secret Police spokesentity is indicating, violently, that he would like a word – the Weather.

Welcome back, Listeners. I am not permitted to discuss what occurred during the break, only that the entirety of the previous editorial, in fact, never happened. At all. Please forget about it and replace it in your minds with the sound of birdsong. Thinking about that editorial is not permitted.

An update on our mime story; Mayor Pamela Winchell has lifted the ban on writing temporarily, as, she said, "I really hate Charades. Really. I'm not… ugh. You can't conduct hostage negotiations in charades!" she continued, her voice rising in pitch and volume. "Seriously, do you people expect – ugh!" she finished. Negotiations with the leader of the mimes are ongoing. Their hostages are thought to be unharmed, but traumatised by the sight of so many sinister, malevolent figures in black and white stripes and thick, pale make up pretending to search the edges of an invisible box. What are they looking for? What existential questions are they pondering? Are we not all, listeners, searching for the edge of the box of our life? The hostages were, within minutes, reduced to rocking, crying, and – in a few extreme cases – miming themselves, depicting strange, post-modern reinterpretations of cosmic self-doubt. Or possibly something with three syllables, first syllable sounds like solipsistic, and it's not a movie or TV show. Negotiations are said to be proceeding well, and we'll give you more on this story later.

And now – Traffic.

**[In an excited, high pitched voice]** Oh my Gosh, did you – he was going way too fast, did you see that idiot? C'mon, speed limits! Speed limits! Ugh. I hope he crashes. Is this my exit? Well, is it the next one? Is it or isn't it? Well, we've missed it now. Oh, that was the turning? _Great_. Let's take the next one and circle back. Oh, wonderful. Hurry up, you idiot! Probably some OAP who passed the test back when everything was steam powered… left or right? Left. What do you mean, _the other left_? Well, it's too late now. You're just terrible at navigating. We're getting a SatNav. **[brief pause]** No, we are _not_ nearly there yet! I swear, I will turn this car around – oh, really? Can't it wait? OK, fine, I'm pulling over. You'd better be wearing your seatbelt – no, stop that, you'd better – if you keep doing that you'll make us all – **[Pause. Distant sound as of crumpling metal and breaking glass.]**

This has been Traffic.

Listeners, an update on the statement released by the hooded figures. It seems that it was not, in fact, "Glitter and ponies and sparkles, oh my! Please leave all jewellery in the nearest azalea clump." It seems that this is not a good idea. I cannot tell you why, but the last three people to place jewellery near an azalea have all vanished, leaving behind only a faint smell of aniseed, a wisp of comically curling smoke, and their bloody, still beating heart, while the faint echoes of eldritch screams recede into the void. I am not sure why, but, listeners, I must advise against placing jewellery near azaleas in the future. No word yet on the glitter, ponies and sparkles. This does, however, mean that the message reads: "It is coming. You are all ignorant of its coming. You should all be afraid of your own, dark, deep, infinite ignorance. It is already here. Fear it. Fear it," which is reassuring, since it is, after all, what the hooded figures have always said. That and **[indecipherable moan, static hiss, clicking]**.

I am now receiving a message from an intern who has been posted near the mime's hostage situation. It reads, "The chill of the void subsumes the mind. Existence is a bloody struggle, breath by breath, for nothing save yet another breath. Forsaken screams echo in the night. Why must we struggle?" It seems that Intern Flavia has fallen prey to the terrors of mime artists. We at the station send our heartfelt condolences to her family, and hope that she'll be happy, or at least not suicidal, in whichever asylum you see fit to place her in.

The Mayor's Office has released a statement saying that the situation has now been resolved. According to Mayor Winchell, "Mimes do not exist. They have never existed. They are a figment of your imagination. The people you imagined being taken hostage also do not exist. It is a collective hallucination brought on by a spatial anomaly passing through town." When reporters questioned this statement, indicating the mimes arrayed in the park behind her, Mayor Winchell reportedly made eye contact with every single questioner and said, slowly, "Mimes _do not exist_. Spatial anomaly. The Sheriff's Secret Police will be happy to explain in detail, at the old mine shaft, with sharp objects." One brave reporter – subsequently seen being escorted by the Secret Police to hear the detailed explanation of why mimes do not exist – asked her why the park appeared to be full of them. Mayor Winchell smiled, with a wild and disturbing glint in her eye, and said, "Not for long". Minutes later, witnesses report a large mushroom cloud appearing over Mission Grove Park. Further details are not forthcoming. The park is now mostly a crater, and also glows, but hey – the rim of the crater's a perfect place to skateboard and practice stunt biking, and now you can do it in the dark!

Well, listeners, I don't know about you, but I'm relieved to know that mime artists do not exist and never have. For those of you who have just discovered that those who you thought of as your loved ones are also figments of our collective imagination – my condolences, but it's better than finding out that _you_ are a figment of your own imagination.

And now, as we all begin, silently, in the black night, to readjust our lives to take in the newfound knowledge of the absence from existence of those we once held dear, and also mime artists, I leave you to our next program – the wildly popular broadcast of four solid hours of the song, "I know a song that never never ends", as performed by the Night Vale Symphony Orchestra and Choir.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.


End file.
